Experi-Mental

...from the ancient bloggity blog, blog-blog, and blog...

Thu. 08/27/2009; 8:18 a.m.

One story, two varied scenarios, and which one do you prefer?

Scenario ONE: Thousands of people are standing together in a pre-dawn camp, surrounded by barbed wire and high towers with ranging, roaming searchlights. It is cold, and breath is visible in the darkness, and people are clumped together for warmth. Although the grounds are large, there are so many people here that there is hardly room to move. There are no restrooms, and people squat to relieve themselves after delaying as long as possible. The people stand in their own waste, which is higher than their ankles. People cough, miserable, shivering, and yet parents still attempt to comfort their children, brothers and sisters cling to each other, kindly older people attempt to reassure the younger people, but things look bad. Tall, severe men in tall severe black boots shove through the clumps of people, administering shots and vaccines, employing electric shocking sticks when people attempt to resist, or complain, or weakly shield their young ones. And as the sun rises the chutes open and people are shepherded toward the narrow passages, the cold metal ramps, and the dark holes up by the second level of the meat-processing plant where the people are converted to food to feed the Visitors. The Visitors are wise, and intelligent, and they are tall, and proud, and they look at the poor, stupid “people” funneling up the chutes, and they shake their heads. So stupid, these “people,” and yet they provide so many nutrients. Shock them sufficiently and they do anything you please, go anywhere you direct them. Stupid? Yes. Filthy? Doubly so. But at the bottom of it all, the “people” taste good.

Scenario TWO: Hundreds of people bask about in the green pastures, talking pleasantly, many singing, laughing, the children innocently doing cartwheels, the men racing each other, the women arranging fruits and vegetables into pleasant configurations, for beauty, and for ease in eating. And overall the people are very happy, plump, healthy, and everyone is rather young, not much older than the children. Throughout the day, which is warm and fragrant with ample shade provided, lilting flute music wafts, enticing and sweet. A few of the oldest “people” follow the beautiful chiming tones, the inviting melodies, and they are met on the edge of the meadow by a tall, shining Visitor, who smiles and bows low to the arriving people. “Thank you, my precious lovelies. Have you been happy?” inquires the beautiful being, with eyes alight with kindness, mercy, and goodness. Yes, the people, smiling, murmur. Oh yes, they have been happy. They are happy. And the Visitor smiles and quickly deftly, painlessly, slices the heads from the bodies of the “people,” before they know what is happening. And then with much respect, and much sincerity, other Visitors come and prepare the “people” for food. The “people” are clean, and pleasant, but most of all, they taste good.

Which scenario would you prefer to play your part? If you are one of the “people,” does the warm and pleasant meadow seem much nicer than the feces-flooded cold over-crowded grounds? If you are the food, would you love the Visitors more for the pleasant treatment, or the honest, filthy treatment? Or would it matter to you, if you were the food? Would you desire to rebel, even if the Visitors were so much smarter than you as to anticipate your every move? If you were so stupid as to be cattle, comparatively, before the Visitors, would you meekly bow to your destiny, or would you do everything possible to start a revolution? Would you attempt to end the injustice?

Or, if you are food, is there such a thing as justice or injustice? To you, the food, this just doesn't feel right. Right. Hmm, that word, right. Is there such a thing as right, or wrong, if you are food?

If you are the Visitor, does it really matter which way you treat the stupid “people,” cramming them into filthy prisons and forcefully inoculating them with antibiotics to attempt to cleanse them of their filth, in order to consume them with some degree of safety? Or ensuring that they are clean and healthy and happy, does it really matter, if they are food to you? If they are born and bred to serve you, to obey you, in short, to feed you? If the peoples are ruled by the two types of Visitors, does it really matter to the people in which camp they find themselves, when the ultimate horror is never something they would willingly choose, their destiny of death, to be consumed as a snack, as a nutritious, delectable meal?

Now consider, what if the Visitors would be more healthy eating Douglas Fir trees, which their bodies are fully adapted to thrive upon, and what if the Visitors would be even more healthy, be able to think more clearly, enjoy procreation more, live longer, and even enjoy just as much as eating the "people," wouldn’t the “people” beg the Visitors to instead of them consume the fast-growing Douglas Fir trees?

Or would the “people” scratch their heads and declare: “Well, it really doesn’t matter, life is life, and a Douglas Fir tree is no different than a people, and so it is just the same for the Visitor to eat us as to consume a poor tree.”

Is it the same thing, or is it in fact utterly different?

"In all the round world of utopia there is no meat. There used to be. But now we cannot stand the thought of slaughterhouses. And in a population that is all educated and at about the same level of physical refinement, it is practically impossible to find anyone who will hew a dead ox or pig. We never settled the hygienic aspect of meat-eating at all. This other aspect decided us. I can still remember as a boy the rejoicings over the closing of the last slaughterhouse."

- H.G. Wells

Wed. 08/26/2009; 7:44 a.m.

Trapped in Colorado Springs, what a terrifying place to live, with the oozing blob of Denver ever globulating its sulphurous mass this direction. Tornadoes coming down like vacuum cleaner hoses, pelting hail. And yet the Starbucks stations are generously distributed about every half block in every direction, spaced out like a grid of steaming frothy soy milk purveyors. Every morning climbing into the saddle of my rearing, raring rat, yanking the reigns in its sharp skittering teeth, and scampering out of the garage into the long lines of creeping, crawling rats, whisker-to-tail waiting in a slow-down-and-wait race that is modern life, I mean modern rat race, my daily grind. Sometimes my rat does not wish to wake. I prod it with my spurs. It is prone beneath me, unwilling to wake and enter the grinding race. It seems to detest the whole experiment as much as I do, this swayback rodent I must ride and kick pretending to enjoy this bubbling ratty rodeo, yee-haw, I say yee-HAW!

Still, we must hope. Gritting our teeth, passing the rats, we must hope. Hope that there is more than this cosmic experiment of racing the maze with our compatriot rats, flitting and skittering, scampering and scattering, chasing the cheese, eluding the rusty steel bars that are awaiting the instigation of massive springs, the bait set and stinking up the passage, and all the clumps of tasty food laid out with mandatory McCarcinogens, McPathogens, and especially McPlumpogens.

Still, we must hope. And wait.

"Until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words: 'Wait' and 'hope.'"

- Alexandre Dumas

Tue. 08/25/2009; 1:10 p.m.

As most carnivores would agree, rat meat is safe to eat. True, you must cook it properly, but that is the case with all meats. People jump up and down about pork and its “safety,” but rarely do meat connoisseurs argue about rat meat. Think about it. Rats are prolific breeders. Their diets demand no overhead. There are no FDA regulations about raising rats, and PETA rarely chafes at the mistreatment of rats in cages, all the while with hungry carnivores with rumbling tummies, waiting for their rat “wings,” drumsticks, and don’t forget those fried tails. As most connoisseurs will readily agree, fried rat tails are much more delicious than fried pork skins, there is hardly competition in the matter.

While you’re taking a breather on your pork, while this flu thing plays its little moment out, enjoy a nice platter of stewed rats, or some succulent rat-kabobs.

Place a male rat in a box with a female rat, and in short time you will have plenty of meat stock to fill those grumbling bellies.

Mix some rat into your baby mush, kids love it, even infants. And we all know that meat is a healthy and decidedly necessary ingredient in every healthy diet. Feel the flu coming on? Don’t reach for that pig, go for the rat instead.

(Come on, admit it, you know very well that Stuart Little looks rather tasty.)

I will not attempt to convince you not to eat rat meat, because I know it will not do any good, and why is that? Why, the answer is as easy as rat pie, it is because rat tastes good (most carnivores agree that rats taste better than pigs). Just properly cook your rats, of course. And be careful to remove all the tiny, pointed teeth, as these have been known to wedge between a carnivore’s gums (floss generally alleviates this problem, and a quick swish of antibacterial mouthwash, and the bleeding usually slows down within half an hour, so don’t worry!).

And no, silly, of course you cannot catch plague from eating rat meat. Where in the world do these imbeciles come up with these things? Nine out of ten carnivorous doctors agree, rat meat is safe, and you don’t have to worry about catching the plague (Bubonic or Pneumonic, if you were worried). Thorough cooking kills all plague viruses.

So invite some friends over, five or six rats will generally suffice. Or schedule that romantic dinner over rat chops and pasta, served with a dusky red wine. Don’t pay any attention to the naysayers. Rat meat is safe (if cooked properly, of course, always remember to cook your tasty little vermin thoroughly).

Isn't this somewhat cannibalistic, as rats consume rats in the rat race? Cannibalistic, true, just cook it properly.

"Nothing will benefit human health and increase chances for survival

of life on Earth as much as the evolution to a vegetarian diet."

- Albert Einstein

Mon. 08/24/2009; 8:45 a.m.

The evolutionist carnivore points a scholarly index finger upward toward the direction in which heaven certainly does not exist and states, somewhat smugly: "We know that man evolved as a carnivorous animal. Indeed, the proof is in the pudding of the dagger-like teeth, the canines, our slightly sharp eye teeth. Ah yes, man evolved eating meat, and eating meat is indeed good. Plus, you know, meat tastes good."

If you mention to the evolutionist carnivore that the great apes, the gorillas are indeed vegetarian, and have much more dagger-like teeth, much sharper, much greater fangs, and yet eat vegetation, always order from the meat-free menu, and have not "evolved" into eating the dead flesh of animals that happen to pass them in the theater, the evolutionist carnivore will look puzzled for only a moment before exclaiming: "Ah, indeed, the great apes, our ancestors, evolved to eat vegetation, and thus their great sharp teeth evolved to rend and scrape the tough plant life. They need those sharp teeth to eat vegetation! Plants are tough. Plants, eating them, really does require those sharp teeth. So, uh, um, yeah, that's why, yes indeed THAT'S WHY. Certainly. It makes sense. Don't laugh at me, why are you laughing you ignorant Tofuhead?"

So humans evolved to eat meat, and two slightly sharp teeth in our mouths prove this, while apes, our supposed ancestors, evolved to eat vegetation, and the proof is in their VERY sharp, VERY great teeth?

Does it make you wonder, this logic, this proof? And the truly puzzling thing is that evolutionists are not the only ones who buy into this "logic," this pop-goes-the-weasel reasoning. Christians spout the same stuff, like ectoplasm erupting from their lips, despite the Bible assuring us that in the "peaceable kingdom" even the lions will eat grass, the wolves and the sheep and even serpents will be pals, and nobody will eat nobody, and there will be no death, not even a sting of death, not even the sting of animal death, and so not even "evolved" humans will eat the flesh of any evolved animal, but only plant life, and that it will be as in the beginning...

...you know the "beginning" I am referring to, do you not? In Genesis 1 God says that plant life, fruits and vegetables, seed-bearing flora will be our food. Heaven seems to agree with God's beginning sequence, His beginnning Intelligent Design.

But when they really, really get funny, truly spasmodically humorous is when the evolutionist carnivore and his compatriot “christian” carnivore proudly state: "Gorillas are NOT vegetarian, oh no they are not! For sometimes they inadvertently eat insects that are hiding in the leaves, they inadvertently consume worms and the eggs of insects, so how in the world can you ever claim them to be vegetarian who only purchase organic products from local farmer’s markets, shuffing down the aisles of Whole Foods in their Crocs? Oh no, thou fool, for the mighty great ape did indeed evolve with great tusk-like teeth for the rending of insect eggs and the squishy worm, harken, jester, for thou shalt consume thy flesh, thy rotting meat, and thou shalt discover enlightenment, oh verily I proclaim unto thee, thou dense Tofuheads, thou Vegetarian vegetable-huggers, and thus spake the Big Bang and forever and forever amen, and amen.”

The Inadvertent Unvegetarian, the gorilla, that powerful brute of a beast that rends caterpillars with his tremendous fangs, who doth pop the pupae of insects, oh cruel carnivorous ape! And thus, even the vegetarians are unvegetarians, if they have ever consumed ketchup, or its gone-South cousin catsup, because you know the bugs get squished therein, and that goes for apple cider too, or any process where oodles of vegetables are ground, pounded, pummeled and turned into something else, you know, oh yes you do, that fruit flies are sneaking about and inadvertently becoming a part of the mix, and thus incorporated into the vegetarian, that lowly Tofuhead.

And yet it is proven through time and space that a vegetable diet is healthier (despite the inadvertent bugs and larvae stowaways), that it not only prevents diseases such as cancer, but that it can actually HEAL such diseases. It is proven that vegetarians live longer, are more potent sexually, think clearer, and actually discover enlightenment a couple of shakes quicker, and almost all of those who find themselves enlightened gravitate toward a vegetarian diet. Why is that? Why is all that?

Even with the chiming pure tones of such towering minds as Einstein and Leonardo, the evolutionist carnivore and his compatriot “christian” carnivore will not budge, because…

…forsooth, Big Mac taste good. Ug. Begone Tofuhead. Me like meat. Meat like me. Yum. "F" the gorillas. No, EAT the gorillas! And the polar bears, because they are sick of swimming at the shrinking North Pole, which ain't really happening anyway, so let's just eat every endangered species and they shall live on inside of us, in our collective memories, oh in our hearts, as we evolve. Eat'em. Eatem, Amen, and Amen.

Dost thou diggeth? I kneweth that thou couldst.

"The greatness of a nation and its moral progress

can be judged by the way its animals are treated."

- Mahatma Gandhi

Sun. 08/23/2009; 6:37 p.m.

Think about it. You've probably heard it 32 times by now (or ten times that), that you cannot catch the flu by eating pork. Correct? Ever wonder, though, why in the world all these silly countries go and slaughter a whole herd of swine, whenever the flu pops up? Isn't that silly? Come on, pork is safe. Right? That's what they tell us. You cannot catch the flu from eating meat. The whole notion is just downright silly.

Then why do they keep killing millions of chickens and burning them in piles? Why do those fools do that? Don't they know that you cannot catch avian flu from eating meat? Cooking the meat kills the germ, correct? Kills all them zany viruses, which really aren't all that bad, now, right? I mean come on, it's just the flu. Novel influenza, give me a break. Just cook it, that's the way to beat that silly flu.

The U.S. Government has complained, and this was released in the media (probably mistakenly) that U.S. hog farmers don't want to report the fact that their hogs got the flu, just don't make sense to report it, because, as we have heard, over and over and over again, you can't catch the flu from eating meat.

So why should U.S. hog farmers report their sick pigs? So some fools can come in and kill all those precious piggies, and burn them in a big ole bonfire of the vanities, what, to appease the porcine gods? A swinish sacrifice? You're probably eating it right this very minute, chewing and reading, reading and chewing. Smacking your lips around your ham sandwich, and hey, it ain't hurting you now, us folks can admit these things to each other. We gotz to help'em hog farmers, they gotz to make a livin' too, don't they? They need to profit, right? So why in the world should they report their sick hogs? Just run'em through the grinder and we'll chow down, us brave, intrepid souls, because we ain't gonna be scairt now, ain't we, I mean ay we, or whatever. Bring on the ham. Slap down the pork. Honey-glaze it, we'll simmer away them flu germs. Shhhh, let's help out the hog farmers.

Think about it. The U.S. hog farmers would lose a lot of money, and that ain't just right, not for downhome folks like us, I mean profit is important, is it not? We are, aren't we, the prophets of profits, aren't we? Excuse me, I'm so sorry, I meant to say: "Ain't we?" That's better, ain't it? We jes folks. Uh, FOKS, jesfoks.

We don't want them hog farmers to lose all that money. Not just from not being able to sell those pigs to you, but think about all the money they spent in shoving shots into piggy butts, to deliver all that antibiotics (and we all know how good, and how expensive antibiotics are, don't we?). Think about it, cooking doesn't kill the antibiotics, does it? So what a waste, we could be getting all those precious antibiotics into OUR bodies, by eating those pigs, instead of piling them high and soaking them with gasoline and lightin'em up, just don't make no sense now, do it?

Antibiotics are good for folks, ain't they? Kill'em bugs, swat I say. Yassum. We need antibiotics, and it's easier to get it this way in our other white meat than going to some doctor who ain't gonna have none of that socialized medicine, ain't we, I mean ay we, or whatever.

Our Government, after all, ARE the experts, they are the ones that assure us that pork is safe. And we love safe pork, don't we? Gots to, it be delicious (supposedly tastes jesslike peoples, mmmmm-yummy).

But still, it is funny how all these countries panic and wipe out their would-be pork platters, don't you think so? WHY do they do that? WHY wipe out millions of chickens and wild birds, when we are told that eating these dadgum creatures is safe? And all that being said, they taste the same, don't they? They still be loaded with all them antibiotics, so I say we eat'em, and eat'em with relish, in brandy sauce.

(Don't panic! Everything is okay! Bring out your dead! Don't Panic!)

Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Better yet, ARE YOU THINKING?

Well, what do you think? Is pork safe, as food, or not?

"A man can live and be healthy without killing animals for food;

therefore, if he eats meat, he participates in taking animal life

merely for the sake of his appetite."

- Leo Tolstoy

Wed. 01/21/2009; 9:39 a.m.

What if, possibly, every time we remember something, we are not drawing off a storage closet hidden in our neurons, but are creating the memory fresh and new? It would be like a chalkboard on which we write 1+1=2 (you can picture that, can't you? a memory flashed across your interior screen, perhaps white chalk on a black board, or maybe it is yellow chalk on green — you probably just "saw" both of those color combinations in your mind), but every time we think about 1+1=2 we run across the room to write the equation upon the chalkboard. After a while, the equation fades from the board, but when we are called upon to remember it, we run across the room and write the equation, trying to place it in the exact same position and location.

But it is not exact, is it? It never is. Perhaps we think it is exactly the same, just the same as we feel that every time we pull up a favorite memory, it has not changed, because, we intuitively feel, we retrieved it from a favored box we keep safely in our mind. But what if the memory is not there if we are not busily creating it?

What if the chalkboard is empty of equations when we are not scrupulously chalking them in?

If this is true, that we create our memories afresh every time we remember them, then we are not really remembering what we think we are remembering, but it is a memory, of a memory, of a memory. Let's say I write the 2+2 equation on the chalkboard and then walk from the room. I sit down in my study and look out the window. I think: "Hmm, did I just write down the equation?" And then I remember it, yes, I stood there, my hand paused for a moment on the plus symbol, and then I nearly dropped the chalk before completing the equation.

There. I just remembered it. A few minutes later, I have left my study and have wandered into the garden, and as I finger the ivy climbing the ancient red brick wall that encircles the garden, I think again about the equation I wrote. I see it in my mind. I see my hand writing the equation. I see the numbers appearing on the black surface, no, it is a green surface, no, actually, it is almost aqua blue, a deep aqua blue. I remember almost dropping the chalk. The white piece of chalk. Wait, no, it was a raspberry red piece of chalk, vivid and new and fresh and just pulled from the box.

That is a memory. But wait a second. Am I remembering standing at the chalkboard? Or am I, in reality, remembering what I was thinking about when I was in my study? Am I remembering the actuality of writing the equation, or the image I called to mind while sitting in my study?

And even now, as I consider the problem, did the board I wrote upon actually turn from black, to green, and finally to aqua? What if the board was glass, and the chalk in my hand was a magic marker?

I can see it right now, before my eyes, my hand writing the equation, and I can hear the black marker squeaking on the glass, and I can smell the strangely pungent ink leaving the felt tip of the marker, making such perfect lines on the glass. But wait a second, it is not a black marker, but very dark blue.

What is happening now? Am I remembering a time when I wrote on glass with a dark blue magic marker? Am I taking a distant memory and mixing it with what just passed a few minutes before?

Or is this imagination, not memory? Or is imagination the recall of memories, and now I may swap them around like wooden blocks?

The thing of it is, what if memories are the same thing as imagination, a recall of things we have seen, whether we were doing them or somebody else, or even things that we have imagined (for instance, I've never seen or heard of a purple magic marker quill pen, but wasn't that what I was using while I wrote my equation on the glass, the purple ink flowing out naturally in calligraphy, the pregnant purple plume tickling near my nose as I finished my equation?).

When I see my sister Donna standing before me, barring my way to my closet and cherished toy box, it is almost as if she stands before me now, her five-year-old body far taller than me, and I am only three, but am I remembering this historical reality, or am I creating afresh as if for the first time, calling up the actors in my mind, this little red-haired girl with freckles and sky-blue eyes, she is certainly not my sister who has had five children herself, but some animated prop that lives inside my mind, that springs forward ready to play her role, and this skinny little boy so ready to weep, that certainly isn't ME, he's another actor. And my mind plays the director, even though I see the drama through the three-year-old actor's eyes, and not in the third person, although wait, now I do see it as if from an audience perspective, I'm sitting here in a darkened theater and I see the small boy from behind, the girl looming huge before him, her hands cockily on her hips. No, wait, her hands are resolutely, stubbornly, no, bullyingly crossed before her and her freckled face is smirking. Wait, just a second, look down, because we are above the two actors, looking at the tops of their heads and the little boy suddenly explodes and pushes the little girl backward and she smashes awkwardly down upon the jumbled, tumbled toys. Hold a moment, we are one of the toys, and we see the little girl actor, the little redhead, and she is blocking the light, and now she is plummeting toward us, like a falling giant, and all goes dark.

Am I remembering something that happened when I was a little boy? Am I pulling something out of a box that has been preserved for whatever reason, folded in sheets, tucked with mothballs? It all happened. It is all true. But for me to recall it, am I in fact recalling it, a little piece of historical reality, as in opening a box and extracting something that always remains the same, or do I like the man walking toward the chalkboard create something fresh each time he writes 1+1=2?

Is the memory different every single time, because it is created every single time, possibly a billion neurons flickering and firing like Christmas lights, miniature, invisible firestorms of light, forming a picture inside the mind, a fresh, new creation? Something never seen before, but closely resembling what has been remembered a thousand times previously?

People think about these things. Scientists write papers about them. Philosophers argue with each other over such issues and some of them kill each other in the heated disagreements that ensue. Are memories stored?

Others believe that they are stored, but not within the individual noodle, but in a vast cosmic memory box that contains the history and the memory of every person that has ever lived, and that by pulling out the memory we are drawing upon something outside of ourselves (many scientists actually accept this notion as fact), and that when we create something, we are pulling out of the cosmic storage box, a vast universally-sized database of parts and pieces, scents and sounds and tastes and feelings, and I might be thinking that I am making up something new, but what I am doing in reality is pulling up a cosmic memory that someone somewhere someplace experienced at some time.

Is nothing new under the sun, truly? Has everything that has happened, happened before?

What if, possibly, every time we remember something, we are not drawing off a storage closet hidden in our neurons, but are creating the memory fresh and new?

Wed. 01/07/2009; 7:34 a.m.

Yes, we pick ourselves up, tugging on them proverbial bootstraps, or Nike strings, we tell ourselves what we need to hear, slapping out silly, slanderous and insipid affirmations to reassure ourselves that it could be worse, that others, many others, have it far worse, because, in the end, or not even at the end but sometimes in the very middle, there is truth at the heart of every cliche, which is why it became a cliche in the first place, but cliches are always tired things, even when we see the early morning sun winking on snow, or even the sun flashing off beads of dew in the grass, and we must fire off the neurons that recollect the beam of light off a ruby, and a sapphire, and diamonds always diamonds, and certainly it is a cliche to say "the sun sparkled off the morning dew like a carpet of diamonds," but the fact is that is what it looks like, and so we are reduced to saying "that woman's teeth are as white as snow," except, of course, despite all the tooth-whitening products pushed and demanded by the teevee money machine, not all that many smilers actually call to mind "white as the driven snow" (which calls to mind "don't eat yellow snow," which is humorous, and also wise, and despite tooth-whitening products available at every drug store, it would seem that many people don't take the advice "don't eat yellow snow" to heart, because, after all, when all is said and done, cliches are tired and worn out and don't spark off the proper awe and ooh when uttered, and thus the folk who, sadly, appear to have eaten yellow snow), but cliches are common tools, like working-class black lunch boxes, nothing fancy, nothing flashy, but they get our food from here to there, as it were, and so day by day we rise and shine and stretch and yawn and scrub our yellow teeth with tooth-whitening solutions, and we stare our faces down in the mirror, and the platitudes spill forth, it is not so bad, I can make it through this, things will get better, things could be worse, yeah my shoes are kind of nasty looking but that fellow over there has no shoes and his second-cousin has no feet, and so we march, from the bathroom, into the world, our maxims and proverbs and cliches echoing in our ears which are sprouting forests of hair despite all the rotary units available at any drug store that can rid us of unsightly hair and make us presentable to the world, so we can get ahead of all the other rats, all of these rodents chittering their own platitudes and self-affirmations, picking themselves up by their proverbial boot straps, rubbing whiskers with their mates, skittering, scuttling, and thus the hamster wheels of the world keep turning, the race keeps running.

Fri. 12/05/2008; 11:48 a.m.

 The woild goes on. It ain't perfect, but then again it never was perfect. Okay, perhaps a very long time ago it was perfect, but then us human types got involved. Yes, the greater evil took precedence, but it has before, and I am sure it will again. We do the best we can and get along with getting on while the woild goes on, weird, wild, wacky, whackified and wonkered, it is what we gotz to gotz to gotz to do, quietly do the old soft shoe, nothing made of much ado. What a woild, what a woild, I'm melting (and belching, always that).

I suggest flushing thy nasal passages. That sounds like a joke? But I am serious, flush them drainage ditches. I picked up this little kit at Walgreens because yes, I was suffering under the blasting of another cold, yes that old rhino virus bashing me on its viral proboscis. Yes, despite the ginger (and Mary Anne). And a friend told me about the nasal flush, which sounded decidedly bizarre. But I picked up the kit, as previously mentioned, and I went home and flushed out my gigantic, titanic schnozzel, and boy oh boy the things that came out of there, a couple of old boots, an anchor, the kitchen sink (I gotta stop sniffing around so much), and believe it or not my cold only lasted about four days (it ended about the third day of blasting my nose with salt water), which is pretty quickie for me and my snout, as colds generally stick around to play for three or four weeks in my great head.

The kit comes with some little packets of salt mixtures, but I find that I like to take a big 2-cup glass measuring cup, fill it with warm water (previously boiled) and add about two teaspoons of sea salt (when you have a cold, use the iodized sea salt, plain ole un-iodized sea salt when you ain' t got no suckah mc cold), and then fill the little blaster bottle with the salty solution, which makes for about 3 bottlefuls. Really cleans the cobwebs out of the head.

To date, this nasal flush is the best thing I've come across, and I've been doing the deed every day, and it has worked wonders (and it is supposed to help thee and thine that suffer the dread nasal allergies). Pick up the kit, for under $13 it is a great tool (much better than inserting a hanky in one ear, threading it around a while, and then pulling it out of the other ear).

The downside, a couple of times, hours after the flush, I find lukewarm water pouring out of one of the great holes in my head (luckily, it has not happened while talking to someone). Without warning, suddenly several tablespoons-worth of salt water comes gushing down over my chin and chest, a salty wee Niagra.

The woild goes on. It ain't perfect, but then again it never was perfect. Okay, so yeah, yadda yadda cockadoodle doodle...

Fri., 11/07/2008; 5:25 p.m.

I've heard people say, very recently, that "Obama is a good man." I would think that along the lines of the Clintons, Bill and Hillary, Obama probably is a good man. I guess it could be an issue of relativity. Compared to the other Hussein, Saddam, Obama probably is a good man. But then again, only time will tell.

Whether or not Obama is a good man, or not, to tell the truth, I can hardly judge. But it is the state of the WORLD, and specifically the United States of America, that you have to wonder about, very much the world wonders after the—should I say it? Perhaps not. But the world, and the U.S., specifically again, are bonkers, nutzoid, coo-coo, whackified, literally and unalterably insane.

Maybe put it down to diet soda. You know, the health soft drink. Kind of like how cell phones are great for your health, holding a little microwave oven up to your head, especially while you are driving, smiling that inane smile, chatting, about nothing, just chatting, and smiling, happy, bovinely happy,chewing the cud, akin to a line of cows shouldering each other aside to get into that meat-packing plant. Oh what fun. Pass me a little cud, please.

Scenes of the liberal media, high-fiving each other. It worked this time! We actually played our reindeer games and the stupid people perked up their ears. It worked. We controlled their minds. Okay, so they don't even HAVE minds any more, but in point of fact we DID control them, the cows, the steer, those thick-skulled, empty-headed cell phone chatters, sipping their diet sodas, we controlled them. They actually voted for whom we told them they just had to vote for.

An improved world.

Russia, once upon a time, changed its name and did its best to make everyone uniformly miserable. And that IS a way of life. You can still live that way. You know, spreading the wealth around.

But happiness? Okay, so in the realm of relativity, what IS happiness? What IS truth? A homeless person with mental illness probably DOES feel a sense of happiness when someone drives by and spits on them, because in their coldness, the spit, fresh from a human mouth, might actually feel warm. The universal empathy of drive-by spittings, warming those who need our warmth, sharing our own almost-divine precipitation.

People in Japan cheer. Obama, he will change the world! People in England jump up and down. Obama, he is the messiah. People in Africa lift their fists in black-power salutes. Obama, he is our man, if he cannot do it, perhaps no one can. People in New Zealand probably broke out a packet of biscuits in celebrating the great feat, the great shot heard round the world. Jesse Jackson poured tears. So did Oprah. And any movie star you can shake a stick at. Even David E. Kelley wrote it into Ally McBeal, oops, I mean Boston Public, oops, I mean that Captain Kirk show where he dances with James Spader, they cried and cried, and watched and watched, oh what a moment of Universal Salvation, oh praise the Mighty Big Bang.

Has heaven reached Earth?

Relatively speaking, perhaps so.

The Great Obama Nation. Oh the Great Obama Nation.

Are you a part of the Obama Nation?

Have a ham sandwich to celebrate. Introduce a sacrifice of pig flesh in the Temple of the Holy Spirit, and cheer, shout out: "I am a part of the Obama Nation." Jump up and down. Cheer loudly. And chant: "Obama Nation! Obama Nation! Obama Nation!"

Are you a proud member of the Obama Nation?

Change has come. Change walks among us. It loves us, and we love it. We smile, chatting on our cell phones, sipping at diet soda, chanting into our cell phones: "Obama Nation!" and "Obama Nation!" and "Obama Nation!"

Even David E. Kelley watches and watches, cries and cries, and chats and chats.

The great man has come. Some call him the "messiah" (not quite understanding what "messiah" means). But all agree he is the great man. A wise man who nobody knows the place of his birth. Oh where did he come from, this great man of the people of the new millenium, oh where did he come from? I have heard people call him a "good man." Possibly, he is a greater man than Bill Clinton. Possibly, he is even better a man than Bill Clinton. Possibly he knows the definition of the word "lie," and how to deceive, oh yes, how to deceive. And is that good?

The State of Colorado is part of the Obama Nation. I hear them chanting outside, "Obama Nation! Obama Nation!" The State of Colorado voted for Obama in overwhelming numbers.

That is the state of Colorado. It is part of the Obama Nation. Colorado will "spread the wealth around." We can do it. Yes we can. We did it. We did it.

We really, really did it, didn't we?

Soon, you too can be a part of the Obama Nation. You too can share in the wealth. Celebrate! Cheer. Chant: "Obama Nation! Obama Nation! I am part of Obama Nation! I love Obama Nation!"

Are YOU a part of the Obama Nation?

As for me and my family, we serve Yahweh. And it is time to flee from Colorado in its state. Idaho voted for McCain/Palin, and its population is rather sparse. Montana voted for McCain/Palin, and its population is even more sparse than Idaho.

Hmmm. Maybe that is the place to go. The last bastion where people don't yearn for Obama Nation.

Sure, people are not perfect. Anywhere.

But something has a decidedly bad smell in Colorado.

It is probably its core, the State of Colorado, what is at its core.

I hear them chanting right outside: "Obama Nation! Obama Nation! Obama Nation! Obama Nation!"

And they cannot hear what they are saying. They literally do not hear the words coming out of their mouth.

Have another diet soda. There's a hot new cell phone ready to roll off the production line, wow you can actually touch the screen, ain't it cool? Salvation walks among us! The price of gas is falling. Ham sandwiches taste good. The world is good. The wealth is coming, in the Obama Nation, it is coming, and the world is good, it is full of wonder, wondering, wondering, wondering after the Great Obama Nation.

What a world, what a world, what a world...

Mon., 09/29/2008; 10:50 a.m.

Watched the presidential debate, and the Number One question on every American's mind has to be: "Does Obama have a speech impediment?" Of course the spinners aren't playing it that way. They claim that Obama came off "presidential." I guess if stuttering leads to good grades in "fine ole-fashioned debatin'," then Obama ought to be King of the U.S., just completely throw away the concept of "president." When it comes to stuttering, Obama receives high honors. Obama said "Whu-whu-whu" and "buh-buh-buh" and "uh-uh-uh" more than any other person I've ever heard, let alone a debater. I almost thought he was slipping into Pentecostal tongues, perhaps to attract more Evangelicals. George Bush the 2nd isn't exactly a great debater, and yet his words were, in all his debates, much smoother than Obama's linguistic flow. Hillary Clinton, who cannot be beat for speaking smoothly and concisely, consistently, powerfully (I mean I think she might have a computer in her brain with thousands of recorded speeches, switching between Speech #2172a or #2172b at the drop of a hat, always perfectly), has talked circles around Obama in every clash.

So what IS going on? Is it some kind of psychological ploy, perhaps that someone who cannot talk the talk must surely be able to walk the walk? Is it a ploy for pity? Reverse psychology?

It cannot be accidental, can it? Someone who speaks that poorly could never be elected President of the United States, could he? Someone who used the word "folks" about four times during the 1.5 hours of debate? Someone repeatedly uttering "gonna?" He never broke down and said AIN'T, but it was obvious he was close.

Was Obama intimated by McCain? Was his feelings hurt because McCain would not look at him? And what was with McCain not looking at Obama? That wasn't very nice, was it? Of course, he McCain could still be upset that Obama referred to his opposing vice presidential candidate as a lipstick-sporting sow (that wasn't very nice, was it?).

Scary times. Scary times indeed.

My advice, choose the lesser of two evils.

Tue., 07/29/2008; 7:48 a.m.

What would you think of a group that actively pursues a secret agenda, that says: "We are not Christian, not really," and yet they believe they are following Christ, and they believe that what Jesus wants more than anything, more than repentance, more than, a sweet disposition, more than good works, more than being "filled with the Spirit"—more than anything, Jesus wants POWER. And this group points to Hitler, to Genghis Khan, to Stalin, to Osama Bin Laden, and their techniques, their "greatness," and claim that the same domineering POWER can work with "True Christianity?" And they don't read the Bible, but they carry it, they don't learn the doctrines, but they heft their Bibles with authority. They hold their Bibles in their hands and the answer to just about any question is twofold: #1 Jesus, and #2 Power.

What if this group claimed that Democracy was going away, and soon? What if this group claimed that Republicans and Democrats were going away, and soon. And that a Kingdom was coming. And they don't mean the Kingdom of Jesus. They mean a kingdom of men, as they ready their cronies and acolytes in high places.

What would you think of such a group?

Do yourself a favor and pick up the book: The Family by Jeff Sharlet. It is all real, and it is at work, right now.

Picture a "Bible study" where the son of the "man closest to Jesus" uses Genghis Khan as a lesson for True Christians. How Khan places a man in a box and covers the box with fine linen and spreads a banquet on top of the box. While the man suffocates in the box, screaming and struggling, Khan is undisturbed as he feasts. This is a "Bible study," and this is the kind of power True Christians should have, will have, and sacrifices (e.g., the man in the box) have to be made, and it shouldn't bother True Christians, not the screams, the thrashings, not the pleading for mercy.

And this is real.

Fri., 07/25/2008; 11:09 a.m.

Sad day, as Randy Pausch has died, author of The Last Lecture. I had been praying for him, and hoping for him. He definitely and distinctly made a great mark on the world.

Cell Phones. It has taken a while, but the medical experts are beginning to come clean. At least some of them. And some are using their brains.

Thu., 07/24/2008; 1:53 p.m.

One bright day in the middle of the night two dead boys got up to fight, back to back they faced each other, drew two swords and shot each other. A deaf policeman heard the noise and came and shot the two dead boys. If you don't believe this true lie, ask my blind aunt, he saw it all.—Just something we used to say as kids.

There was a frog lived in a well, whipsee diddily dandie oh! There was a mouse lived in a mill, whipsee diddily dandie oh! This frog he would a wooing ride with sword and pistol by his side, with a harum scarum diddle dum dare'um, whipsee diddily dandie oh!—There was more to this, we sang it in the first grade, but alas I don't remember.

Wed., 07/23/2008; 8:40 a.m.

Two months at the new job (ITT, on Garden of the Gods), Genny is three months old today, and my eyes are blurring in and out. Bean sprouts, bean sprouts, my mind cries. It paints pictures of lettuce slathered with Vegenaise, rolled into neat little tubes, sunflower seeds dripping with olive oil, balsamic sprinkled, sprinkled balsamic, my mind provides scents of these things, titillating me, scintillating me, all manner of weedy greens, spinach leaves, cherry tomatoes, avocado, avocado, avocado, oh those carrots, baby carrots, long carrots replete with skin, and back to bean sprouts, a bean-sprout sandwich on Genesis Bread, sliced tomatoes, onions red onions, onions and leeks, raisins and dried cranberries tumbled through the mix, Bragg's Apple Cider Vinegar but just a dash, and of course a squirt of their miraculous Liquid Aminos, and teriyaki sauce, ginger, flaky dried onions, leafy lettuce and heads of lettuce, celery, tumbled and tossed and sprinkled with garlic.

Am I twisted and insane with these insidious visions of GREEN, GREEN, GREEN?

Temptation on Day 11 as my company is bringing in lunch from Einstein's, one of my favorite places. Oh a cranberry bagel with sprouts, bean sprouts, and lettuce, and a tomato. Can I resist such a succulent temptation? Can I survive? Do I want to survive? How can I resist a bagel sandwich? The humanity! The HUMANITY!

Wed., 07/16/2008; 8:24 a.m.

When you are taught something, and you accept it as true, you want to believe it, you want it to be true. If you are taught when you are a child that the color "orange" is matoobie, and every time you color in your coloring books you use matoobie, and it is not necessarily your favorite color, just a color you use often and then you go to first grade and the teacher tells the class that this is orange as she points to your matoobie, you become upset. You were told that what the teacher is calling orange is really matoobie and it upsets you that the teacher is lying to the children. You know that it is true.

You feel reality bend back like a snake and bite you, and that is not pleasant.

It will be difficult for you to accept the truth of orange over your favored matoobie. True, you might start calling the color by its right name, but there will always be a secret sore, a tender spot, deep inside you, and you will probably still think of orange as matoobie. And whenever you hear anyone call it by its right name, you will feel a little twinge of unreasonable anger. You know it is unreasonable, because you the authentic truth, even if you were taught wrong in the beginning. But still. Why don't they just shut up about ORANGE, what's so good about orange anyway, are they stuck on orange? Are they obsessed with orange?

You scowl as you drink your matoobie juice, hardly able to enjoy it, despite the boost of Vitamin C.

When someone says to you: "Knock Knock."

And you knee-jerk reply: "Who's there?"

And they say: "Banana!"

And you reply: "Banana Who?"

And they repeat it again, KNOCK KNOCK, who's there, Banana, Banana who. And then without completing it they begin AGAIN, pretty much driving you nuts, you are just about done with this stupid ritual of childhood when suddenly they hit your key nerve:

"Knock knock."

Sigh. "Who's there?"

"Orange."

You pause. There it is, they just said that word. That word. The bitterness wells in you. THAT word. It angers you. They said ORANGE. Okay, you've learned that your granny was a tad touched (or a touch tadded?), that she wasn't all there, and besides, she wasn't wearing her dentures when she told you that this crayon color is matoobie. You've accepted all that. You've dealt with it. You've moved on.

But still, orange will always cause a twinge of irritation.

After the pregnant pause you say: "Orange...WHO?"

And they reply: "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

For some reason you don't want to laugh, even though you do offer a small courtesy chuckle. Because it seems almost profane, using that word that way. Orange. Matoobie. Orange.

But you have to admit to yourself, it just wouldn't work if your friend said: "Matoobie you glad I didn't say banana?"

If you ever get beyond it, it will be because you finally accept that you want truth over tradition. Regardless of how beloved that tradition is. You prefer the truth. Tradition is something people do, and make, and keep.

Truth is.

(Knock-Knock Joke provided by Bronte Larsen)

Sabbath, 07/12/2008; 10:50 a.m.

Okay, it is probably premature, but today I'm going public with The Little Papa Stories. They are just little vignettes from Papa's memory. Little stories about me when I was little. That's it. Nothing spectacular. My father always told us stories of when he was little (and the funny thing was, every time he told the stories the details would change a little bit—we never though he was lying, just that he was forgetful, although the truth is it is more likely the creative mind at work, always wanting to tell the same old thing in a totally new way). So anyway, before my memories are vanished along with my mind, I though I ought to set them down for my children, especially my two oldest (Alicia probably hasn't heard anything from my childhood, and probably believes that I never had a childhood). I've told all these stories to Harrison, mostly, and to my wee ones, but I thought I better set them down, and Google is so awesome in providing free space. I hardly have an excuse NOT to set them down.

Wed., 07/09/2008; 7:18 a.m.

In the grind, ground about, through the filter, into the pot, bubbled and stewed and doubled and troubled. Stop complaining.

Ah Doody Clay Yuh! It is almost impossible to see the plan, even short-term twists and terms which lay just ahead. As pathetic humans, we groan and moan about the HERE, and we immerse ourselves in what went before, even when we KNOW there is a plan, even when we understand that there is a very real purpose. Like a thread whining that it is twisted in with all the yellows and browns, off-color greens and drab ochers and bizarre maroons, endlessly going in and out and twining about, is there no end to this endless dreary drabness, this quintessence of dust, the thread is just a thread, even when the whispers relate that a grand picture is evolving, that a masterful tapestry is spreading out grandly across the walls, the thread worries about the spool. What if it breaks. The thread worries about the needle. It is painful. The thread worries about the pattern. What if it is off, even just slightly? Even when the thread catches glimpses of the majesty, observes massive landscapes unfolding, portraits smiling benignly, the thread has a short-term memory stumbling block, not enough bandwidth. The thread is just a thread and it often wishes to be a dazzlingly bright high-tech sewing machine. Ah Doody Clay Yuh.

Thu., 06/19/2008; 12:23 p.m.

"Sorrow shared is halved and joy shared is doubled."

- Native American Proverb

Wed., 06/18/2008; 2:50 p.m.

On a weekend watch the movies Hamlet on Saturday night and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead on Sunday morning. On Sunday night you will find yourself saying: "Oh, okay, so THAT's what in the world..." and "Do you think Shakespeare actually meant..." and on Monday morning you will be saying: "I need to watch them both AGAIN." After your second and third viewings, well, maybe things will never be the same again.

Tue., 06/17/2008; 11:43 a.m.

You remind yourself that you have some choice in the matter, that you must not necessarily sink beneath the lapping of the blues, but then again sometimes the madness of the world is not the easiest thing to laugh off, and sometimes you must wonder how in the world you can keep from going mad, or even better, if you are not completely insane, right now, at this very moment. But then you remember that if you are questioning your sanity, you are probably not insane (or, possibly but not necessarily probably, you are sane). But you cannot hide, and hiding does not good save for welling thick the anxiety. There is One you can call upon, and you cannot tire this One out, but the thing of the blues, the sucking, drowning, sinking thing of the blues is sometimes you want to be left alone, even from the One, even though you know this isn't you, and you are not hiding. But this is life, you realize, you have always known—only ding dongs run around giggily and happy, drooling every moment of the day, and somehow, just that realization dissipates the blues, and sometimes you must just crawl your way through the muck, and it was never promised to be easy.

Laugh off the madness, the insanity of the world, and the somewhat unbearable heaviness of thinking, constantly thinking.

Fri., 06/13/2008; 11:13 a.m.

Ancient today; if I get four more, that'll be fifty, if you can believe THAT.

Okay, here's the book you need to start reading today if you want to figure out what is happening right now: The Coming Economic Collapse, and on Audible.

I have a friend who was telling me just a few days ago that we could solve all the world's problems if those pink commie liberals would only allow us to dig up Yosemite, Sequoia, Yellowstone and other fluffy airhead campgrounds that we don't really need anyway. I mean, come on, what's more important, a whole bunch of old trees, and dirt, and rocks, and mountains—or our big cars? Come on, our cars go vroom and vroom and even VROOM, and we need to get to work, and to the store so we can buy things, and what in the world would trees do with cars anyway? Trees don't need cars, and they certainly don't need OIL, so why should we allow these carless old plants to keep all the oil to themselves, the big greedy grabbers! The oil is there, it just has to be, and it is endless, and it is good, God made it for our cars, didn't you know that? God loves us and God loves big cars, and if you don't subscribe to THAT you are a heretic and maybe, just maybe God might have to do something very, very, VERY bad to you (and if God slips up, and doesn't do it, um, just maybe, just perhaps, one of God's chosen must then do the DOing).

At one time wood was a very important economical resource. But when the demand got too great, we switched over to coal (and a lot of people thought that was just plain ole silly). Pretty soon the whole industrial revolution was based on coal. Then we switched over to oil and the ancestors of those that didn't want to make the switch to coal spoke up again and said: "Oil? Who needs oil? Coal is just fine." Now we need to switch over to something else, and the same line of great thinkers are speaking up, and they are saying: "Switch over from oil? Why no, sir, that would be discombobulated, and it has always been oil, and so shall it ever be, amen." Yet, the tricky thing is, we ain't got nuffin to switch over to. Nuffin and Nuffink.

Wind? Sunlight? Come on, why did you knee-jerk reaction even THINK that? Tell the truth, have you EVER heard an SUV powered by electricity or wind go VROOM? No you haven't, and you never shall, and so let it be written, so let it be done.

Can I get an AMEN?

Thu., 06/12/2008; 3:09 p.m.

Don't you think it would be SILLY for people to purposefully attempt to crash their own country? I mean, what would be the reason? It couldn't be any fun, could it?

But then again, if you could cause your country to crash, and you had a network of "workers" ready to "jump into the gap," and you had a plan to "improve" your country, then you very well might attempt to crash your own country, wouldn't you? I mean, that at least would make sense. If you felt you were in the right, and everyone else was in the wrong, you might want to take them down, crashing yourself at the same time, in order that you could rebuild from the ashes. You know, a new order, a new world, and perhaps, a new world order.

Freemasons are Christian, right? They have to believe in God, don't they? You might even say: "The god of this Earth." And we can fully believe that they fully believe in their right, in their cause, in their "god," because he has convinced them that his enemy is insane, is wrong.

Evil is subjective, correct? As is good. In Hitler's eyes, he was a very good man, he was doing a good thing.

Perhaps they are right, those that believe that the "light bringer" or the "light bearer" is in reality the hero of the story, perhaps they are right that good is evil and evil is good.

But then again, maybe not.

Wed., 06/11/2008; 1:34 p.m.

One of the best things, for me anyway, about going to a new job is in finding out where the best "walk" is—every place I've ever worked, I have more vivid memories of my break-time walks than of the jobs themselves. I love to listen to recorded books while I walk (usually with the ear piece in one ear, so I can listen to nature, as well), or music, and while I walk I attempt to gain impressions about the landscape (and in Colorado Springs, the mountain ranges are especially good), in a multi-task way exercising the lungs, brain, legs, while absorbing some sun and filling the lungs with air (the air is pretty good here, although the spirits are not).

Mon., 06/09/2008; 7:47 a.m.

Just stumbled across an old blog entry I made in 2005 (writing about an occurrence in the Year 1999) and although it is already growing dim in my mind, the experience certainly impressed my mind, and it is yet vivid in some aspects (from the very beginning it seemed somewhat dreamlike, or sensory heightened, and I can honestly say I've never met anyone like him before or since). I include the story here as many of the things are only now coming to light (such as the proliferation of man-made chemicals parading as "healthy artificial sweeteners" popping up in such things as Wrigley chewing gum, as well as most gums and mints sold as freshening the breath) (and the fact that cell phone waves disturb and confuse bees, and scientists are scratching their heads as beehives across the world are abandoned). and vivid is my recollection of the strange man's twinkling eyes and glowing red skin.

From my old blog Inner Undulations, from 2005:

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2005

Conspiracy Theories

This guy was huge, not exactly fat, not exactly muscular, but huge, in a strong and roly poly way. He came strolling down the aisle to the front of the church, with a big meaty red face, a bright red shirt, and spotless white dockers. He plunked down in the second or third row from the front, and sat there smiling, his smile almost filling his entire huge face.

My wife and I were sitting in the row behind him, but on the far side of the pew (he sat near the middle aisle, while we were on the outside left of the church, near the front). He glanced back directly at me and nodded and smiled with such a look that I though I must know him, or at least had met him sometime before, and it seemed he remembered me a lot more than I remembered him.

When the time came for everyone to get up and greet a few people, I walked straight over to him, and he turned immediately to meet me. This was odd for me, as I'm highly introverted, and generally people must come to me. But something compelled me to go to him, and he was ready. He grabbed my hand with his big beefy hand and our hands seemed the same size and strength. At the time I was about 36 or 37, and this big guy must have been about 55 or so, with a mop of very white hair and white eyebrows.

He started talking, to me what seemed impossibly fast. Some of the most rapid-fire speech I've ever heard. And yet, as I stood there with my head tilted, trying to listen and absorb as much as possible, it seemed I could clearly hear everything this guy was rattling off. And it wasn't the kind of stuff a stranger usually began to spew in church. It's all a blur now, but I met him after church and he gave me the same rapid-fire treatment, but at least allowed me to get in a few questions, which he'd answer in a machinegun rattle of high-powered free-flow and free-form speech.

Here is an example of some of the stuff he said, and I'll do a one-byte paragraph—this all crammed into about 30 seconds of time, in one huge breath—but keep in mind, this guy didn't seem crazy (well, a lot of the stuff seemed crazy, and I do tend to draw the fringe thinkers and conspiracy nuts, but he seemed completely rational, like a third-grade school teacher telling a quick list of how his day goes, only you find he's telling you about a classroom of albino children with two heads each, all of them mindreaders, and these kids are going to take over the world—is this guy a nut? Or a genius with a paradigm microscope that is picking up details on reality that you never thought plausible, let alone possible).

"It's all happening now, it's all clicking into place, everything, no one can see it right now but it is spinning out of control, all the key elements are snapping together and you can almost audibly feel it, it's all around you, the cell phone usage, that will continue to expand, rapidly, they'll want to get everyone in America on a cellphone, everyone, and Aspartame, sneaking Aspartame and other similar mind-control chemicals into everything you eat and drink, because the Coven is tightening their grip, they are moving forward now at an incredible pace because they know their time is short, and if you're not careful you will not see it happening, it will all seem normal including the laws that clench down on civilians as the Government takes more power for itself, as citizens lose all their rights to privacy or individual thought."

That's kind of a cumulation of the kind of stuff he was telling me. And he was telling me this stuff as lightly as if we were discussing the weather, he kept his voice low and personal, he met my eyes, eye-to-eye, and he didn't seem to need to look away or hardly breathe. And something, an overwhelming sensation of compulsion, told me to listen, listen carefully, take in as much as possible. Another part of me, of course, was screaming: "This guy is a nutcase, watch out!"

One of my traits is that I tend to talk on the slow side, mainly because my mind is going so fast it is difficult for my lips to keep pace, and if I talk any faster my tongue and lips will start clashing and tripping over each other—unless I get upset, or angry, and then of course more instinct than mind takes control, and my speech can get very fast. This guy was completely calm, and the things he was saying, though they sounded ridiculous, were spoken in such a calm and rational way that it created an almost supernatural sense of drama.

I finally broke in and said: "So exactly what is this all doing, what does Aspartame and cell phones have to do with each other?"

"It's mind control, subtle mind control that no one notices, as both Aspartame and cell phones were designed specifically to create tumors, generally benign tumors, in the brain. I was a chemist working for the Government on this project, and we specifically tested chemicals to find a way to slowly, subtly replace healthy brain cells with useless matter, tumors, clusters of tumors, so that people will slowly begin to lose their ability to make decisions, to think clearly, to see behind the issues, to make rational decisions even on important issues, so that people will lean more and more upon others to make the necessary decisions for them."

He rattled out different chemical equations and combinations and alternative names for Aspartame and launched into a diatribe about the different waves and rays that are constantly ripping through the atmosphere, most of which I could never remember or distinguish fact from fantasy, but he was saying all this in an authoritative way, as if all this were true to him, and he needed to tell certain people.

In a period of about 10 minutes he told me that he was on the run, that he used to be wealthy, that a Coven was running America, and the world, that such people as Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw were high in the echelons of this Coven of Witchcraft, that the media was locked into this elite body, he mentioned the Illuminati, and that the media was feeding the civilian the "necessary" information.

After a while he thanked me for listening to him, shook my hand in his big paw, and then smiling, walked away.

On the drive home I jokingly told Carolena that maybe this guy was an angel! She thought he was just a crazy guy.

But in the ensuing years I've wondered, because when he told me this stuff about cell phones, I had never heard anything of the kind, but instinctively I knew to use them only in emergency situations, not as a chatting instrument. My body could feel the negative rays shooting into my head, very similar to standing in front of a microwave oven while it's running. I had already heard the negative side to Aspartame and had never desired to use THAT, just a small taste of it makes your body scream that this is worse than any caffeine or sugar. And cell phone usage has exploded—there is a distinct push to convince everyone to abandon conventional phones, "git yer hole family on this inixpinsive plan, you kin talk a 1000 minutes a day!" And Aspartame, despite the obvious health dangers—it is increasing, not decreasing.

This happened a few years before the movie "The Matrix" appeared at theaters, and when I first saw it, a lot of bells rang (bells related to this "crazy guy" and also to many other things). Reality is far different than what most people imagine.

Angel or crazy man?

Sabbath 06/07/2008; 7:42 a.m.

You have gifts deep inside of you, many of which you don't even know about. You are not familiar with what you are capable of, the talents you have not yet drawn upon. The sad thing about the world is that we are encouraged to do everything the way everyone else does things. When a nail sticks up above the rest of the nails, we are taught to bring the hammer down and slam that offender back deep into the wood, bring it in line, make it flush, service in the collective, like bees in a hive—no gender, no personality, no other purpose than the greater good of the little waxy hexagons (yes, that is a mixed metaphor, but even mixing metaphors is a skill, a talent). All the little bees with all their little hammers, slamming down flush the irregularities (see, now it is not a mixed metaphor, but a humorous image, bees with hammers).

Most of us took tests in school, little patterned questionnaires that attempted to marshal our interests and couple those with our abilities. It is not a bad idea. But for most people, I know, it was ridiculous, as so many people fit themselves into that bee mode of test taking, providing the answers they are certain the testers want to receive. If you take a test like this, smashing down all the nails, then you negate the purpose of the test.

My tests always displayed the same boring results. That I should be a journalist, that I should be an artist; and always the weird ones were slipped in (I should be a farmer, I should be a pilot, I should be a hot dog salesman). But I allowed my life to shake me and stir me, mix me and blur me. What did they know? Those test takers. I had to be me, I had to do what I had to do. So life decided. And I pretty much ended up writing, arting, and dreaming about selling hotdogs, port to port, via airplane (surrounded by little home-grown bonzai trees). Maybe I better wake up.

I'm still dreaming.

"Do all the good you can. By all the means you can.

In all the ways you can. At all the times you can.

To all the people you can. As long as ever you can."

- John Wesley

Fri. 06/06/2008; 11:57 a.m.

Develop the skill of seeing things in many ways. Imagine what it would be like to be THAT person (you know the one). Call to mind the memory of emotion, how you felt, way back when, when that thing happened to you (I'm not suggesting dredging up catastrophic or depressing events, just something, perhaps when you were eight years old, and you felt so strongly about this thing, and you knew, deep in your heart, that when you grew up you would REMEMBER, and now, remembering that day, you realize you have not remembered, perhaps not until NOW, what you were so certain was indelibly imprinted upon your heart, your soul). We tend to see things in one way, while all along we knew deep down that it is far more complicated than that. To think that Republicans are righteous and Democrats are evil...?

We might think in such terms, whereas pulling back and viewing the question with a tad objectivity, we will instantly discern that Republicans and Democrats are both evil, with perhaps Republicans being the slightly lesser of two evils (and more probably, in time, the lesser evil will become more evil than anything Hitler ever hoped for).

This is a very common image (at the left). Instantly you see what you see. But look a little longer, cant your head slightly to the right, draw back from it. First you might see a young figure further away, and then, perhaps you'll see a closer character, or caricature. The big dipper on the right, is it a youthful jawline? Or is it in fact a bulbous nose? Both realities are there, if we will only see them. And on perhaps a deeper level, these are two views of the same person, the young beauty vain and fashionable, and the aged, wizened old woman huddled against the cold of the world and how it views as valueless the ancient.

The funny thing about it is, when you feel that SHIFT in your brain, where first you see a damsel, then suddenly a crone, there is an actual none-too-subtle switch thrown in the brain, and we move from this mode, to this mode. Shift back and forth. Do it slowly at first. Then faster. Make the switch. Attempt to see both views at once. Feel it. Think it.

Switch back and forth and then see them both at once.

We can practice that skill.

For truth, we MUST practice this skill, seeing things in a new way, from a slightly different angle. Don't just accept what you are told the picture represents, don't accept the truth you are handed from someone else—you might even see a ladybug in the picture.

The reality is in both views, not in one or the other. We might not see the truth at first, and we might not like it when we finally recognize it, but the truth is always and ever the truth.

Fri. 05/30/2008; 8:28 p.m.

Was extremely saddened to hear that Lorenzo Michael Murphy Odone died today, at the age of 30. He was the boy featured in the movie Lorenzo's Oil, and had been predicted by his doctors to die at the age of 8. Lorenzo was one of the first boys to outlive the horrendous childhood death of adrenoleukodystrophy (ALD), thought the myelin (the insulating fatty tissues around the nerves) had deteriorated to the point where most people would determine him to be in an unresponsive coma. Probably the best film representation of incredibly brave parents who refuse to give up, regardless of the opposition, even when told that they should give in and allow their precious son to "die with dignity" is the movie Lorenzo's Oil, which I would highly recommend to anyone (Nick Nolte is especially superb, with Susan Sarandon at her usual brilliance). I remember first watching the movie and wondering out loud: "Why in the WORLD am I watching this...?" As it had me so upset throughout. But it is worth it. You want motivation for never giving up? Watch Lorenzo's Oil.

Thu. 05/29/2008; 12:12 p.m. (working at Compassion, 9-month contract job)

GoodEarth Original Sweet & Spicy Tea—love the stuff. It is almost good enough to induce me to completely give up coffee, ah but then there is Starbucks and my own Kryptonite, are you ready for this? My "Venti Soy Coffee Miso with One Honey and a Sprinkle of Cinnamon"—I just might be able to live off them. I mean, come on, it is hardly coffee anymore, it is more a hot milkshake, and it is ALMOST healthy! The coffee and the soy and the honey and the cinnamon, all of them rich in antioxidants—hey forget the antioxidants, I'm talking about the TASTE, I can hardly stand it, it is almost killing me it is so good. I'm going to have to invest in a new high-powered high-tech espresso machine for like $300 to actually SAVE money in that buying a Venti-Soy-Coffee-Miso-with- One-Honey- and-a-Sprinkle-of-Cinnamon (the cost, I think about $2.84 per Venti cup) just might kill me before the caffeine gets its shot! My particular coffee health (is that a misnomer?) drink could even lead you to reading "How Starbucks Saved My Life" (and especially good on Audible.com) by Michael Gates Gill, which is a pretty good read, although as a "really truly REAL" story it can read somewhat preposterous with the protagonist bumping into everyone from Frank Sinatra and having a meaningful moment, to a pugnacious Ernest Hemingway and practically having a chest-hair-pulling contest—but if taken as fiction, it is precocious, savvy, sweet, a little silly, and points a somewhat shaky finger at some of the things that are most important in life, chiefly, relationships, and hard work, and listening, and seeing beyond color or age or gender. Some good stuff, Maynard. Not quite as good as my Venti-Soy-Coffee-Miso-With-One- Honey-And-A-Sprinkle-of-Cinnamon (youch, that sounds almost as bad as Kelsey Grammar ordering his coffee on an episode of Frasier!).

But, oh yeah, back to the GoodEarth Original Sweet & Spicy Tea. Great stuff, very spicy without having a grotesque licorice taste, or orange peel, and it is strong (my trouble with most teas is that they prove a trifle wimpy, like snorting delicate flowers) (me he man, must guzzle potent dark brew—hey, you could probably capture and squeeze a 100 roaches into a coffee pot, warm it up, and I'd say: "Yeah! Great coffee!) (I'm easy, as far as coffee goes)...

...but to date, there just might not be anything in the world that causes me to roll my eyes as much as a Venti-Soy-Coffee-Miso-With-One-Honey-And-A-Sprinkle-of-Cinnamon.

Tue. 05/27/2008; 9:02 a.m.

And THAT was supposed to be a LONG weekend? That's the problem with getting older: time keeps gaining speed. Those four days went by about as fast as a day used to go when I was a kid.

Reading Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture" (on Audible.com) and really very much enjoying his perspective, all the more poignant because he is involved in the ultimate personal struggle (and yes, so are we all, only his doctors have set a timer ticking on his struggle).

Thu. 05/22/2008; 1:19 p.m.

What's the prob, slob? What's the news, Bobby Blues? No tengo tiempo para ti! Psyche. Let's make like Joan, and Jett. Let's make like jelly, and jam! Let's make like a banana and peel! Buh-duh-dump BUMP! (that's my version of a rimshot) Just finishing off a hard-fought first week back in the rat race, and boy are my ratty little legs pooped. Actually, not such a bad egg for a week, as my exhaustion is more from being a new father (well, an OLD father having a new-father experience). So now I have a long weekend and hopefully I'll catch up on a few lost zzzs.

Wed. 05/21/2008; 3:13 p.m.

The whole point of "metaphor" and "simile" is to bring clarity to a subject by making a comparison to something else entirely, and by attaining understanding of the "other" thing (generally in smaller sense) we may apply that understanding to the greater thing. In a figurative sense I might describe my baby crying as an over-the-top opera singer greedily bellowing for attention (metaphor), or I might say she sings like a goose (simile). These are usually small, common figures of speech, and can be humorous or exaggerative (hyperbole), but then again neither of those things (you might just stumble around and try explaining something by throwing all manner of comparative descriptions that don't necessarily exaggerate or employ humor).

In a larger sense a parable is used (and often metaphors and similes might play a part in the telling of the parable), which is a story with figurative elements, only to be told for purposes of greater understanding. A parable is never equal to the reality it seeks to explain or shine greater light upon, because if it were equal, it would be the exact same story (or it would be like making a lifesize map, which sounds handy, except why do you need a map that is lifesize when you are actually IN lifesize all the time? probably the next great invention will involve wearing glasses which present a virtual map overlaid upon the reality you are looking upon, sort of "Tom Tom glasses," or GPS specs, so when you look at the street it is labeled, and/or arrows appear before you indicating which direction you should take).

The problem is when someone tells a parable and people forget that it is a parable, that the parable is symbolic and has minute pieces, each of those pieces with meaning (e.g., allegory, or allegorical), all for the purpose of shining light on the greater reality. This happens all the time with the Bible, where people will take a parable like "The Rich Man and Lazarus" and forget the whole point behind it (that love of money is going to get you into trouble, that you can't serve both God AND money, that rich men are not necessarily blessed of God and poor men are not necessarily cursed, and that if people will not harken to the teachings of the Bible, including what is called the "Old Testament," that they are in serious, serious trouble, and very well might end up in a place that is a far cry from Abraham's bosom, and of course, that even if someone rose from the dead people will still not hear the truth! all of that) and take the pieces of the parable and assemble them in new and incredibly stupid ways, to arrive at whole new and "improved" versions of the "Truth." You should hear the nonsense that people "preach" about "Abraham's Bosom" without any understanding that it is an expression similar to and meaning the same thing as "to sleep with one's fathers" or "to join the forefathers" (i.e., in other words, simply: to DIE).

Some people actually believe that some people go into Abraham's chest when they die, or at least they used to go into his chest. I don't know how large Abraham was, but it had to be pretty crowded after a few dozen or so people showed up, imagine the people crammed between ribs, nestled under Abe's big heart, bouncing on his tummy.

It all ends up being more karma running over dogma.

Tue. 05/20/2008; 4:58 p.m.

hey diddle diddle

the cat and the fiddle

the cow jumped

over the moon

the little dog laughed

to see such sport

and the dish

ran away

with the spoon

People think the fork got the shaft, that it was the fork who deserved to enjoy connubial bliss with the spoon, but in fact the fork and the spoon have always been competitors for the affections of the dish, and often the dish just doesn't desire the point of the fork, and remember, it was the dish that seized the spoon and bodily carried her away. The dish pretending she is a bowl, and the spoon pretending not to know the difference. I don't know if I appreciate the cat, who serenades the spectacle, but we must all commend the bovine in her track shoes and pole vault, yet the canine is almost useless in his glee, this sports aficionado. Perpetually, at least since I was a tiny tot with player piano musicbox which scrolled through the scenes, in 3-D mind you, that dish has absconded with the spoon, and the little musical notes have wafted in the breeze like the eyes of God, searching out the world, running to and fro.

And now I perpetuate this perpetuation, in chortling this travesty in rasping baritone utterances, to my newborn daughter (of all people!). She doesn't seem to care. She just stares at me. But when she falls asleep, her subconscious takes over, and she proves that she does indeed know how to dance to the revelations of the musical cat. And she smiles, my Genny, barking with the laughing dog. Is she dreaming of me, or of the dish absconding with her treasured spoon, or that cow swinging her ponderous breasts up over the horned moon, or does she take sides with the fork, that miniature pitcher, always weeping on the sidelines for that faithless dish, the traitorous spoon, and their time-honored menage et trois.

Fri. 05/16/2008; 3:28 p.m.

Well, it's back to the rat race after 1.5 years (but at least I have the weekend). I keep trying to get out, and they keep DRAGGING me back in...

Thu. 05/15/2008; 10:30 a.m.

The world is set up to represent the rat race, and generally the most vicious rats find their way to the lead positions, and rats running in the maze that are certified to have found the cheese are usually the rats given the edge even before the pistol fires and the gates open. The most competitive rats are rewarded the most, because this is a competition, after all.

Many rats do whatever possible to get out of the race. These rats are not cowards, or non-competitive. These rats have just realized that the rat race is a complete fabrication set up by other rats, the fattest rats in the pack. The fattest rats will do whatever possible to contain the rebellious rats, keep them in the race, because if these rats escape, then the vast population of rats running in the race might obtain a similar rebelliousness and also want out of the race, and if enough rats escape the race the very fattest rats will begin to lose weight, and this cannot be allowed.

Tue. 05/13/2008; 2:17 p.m.

Yisrael Hawkins, founder of the "House of Yahweh," has been busted for a number of minor crimes, and the deeper you look into him the more grotesque is the stuff that turns up (not quite at a Ted Haggard level, although I don't think it is really possible for anyone to actually achieve Haggard's accomplishments, you have to give him that; well, okay, you can't give him much else, except maybe an arrest warrant, or a subpoena, maybe a restraining order). And the sad thing is, I think ole Buffalo Bill (his actual real name, which ain't all that bad as far as names go, I mean I like it better than what he changed it to, and why cult leader feel they should change their names is beyond me) started out with the right idea. Theology-wise, he was pretty right on in a number of areas, but then again you generally do start to fall down a hill gradually, at least at first. But bigamy, child abuse, forcing a woman in delivery to bleed to death, raking in huge chunks of each of the cult members' incomes, it just keeps getting worse and worse. And the worst of it, they (the cult leaders) do it all in the name of God. To me, it is a much worse sign that an earthquake in China, and probably more damaging, or a typhoon in Burma, or tornadoes in the Midwest, or even, really, a massive volcano in South America.

Much more gross, too, don't forget that.

But it just goes to show that the road to hell really is paved with good intentions (or possibly the intention were good, but only a the beginning, but that is just a guess), and nobody is above the Law of God (and when you start feeling like God has given the big thumbs up to your sins, then you definitely have fallen from grace, and you're in big trouble—why not release all your poor followers, so that they don't share in your punishment and ridicule?). But cult leader seem to feel called to take down as many with them as possible, all the way down, to the very abyss.

You almost have to hand it to the charlatans such as the Hinns, Meyers, Copelands, Stones, Wommacks as like foxes they dance their little feet just ahead of the jaws of the media and the courts of law (but judgment is coming, that is for certain).

Mon. 05/12/2008; 11:48 a.m.

Earthquake in China, typhoon in Burma, super series of tornadoes in the Midwest of the U.S., and you don't think something is up?

Sun. 05/11/2008; 11:33 a.m.

Much is written about friendship, and I feel no compunction to add to the volumes, other than stating that it ain't about Hallmark cards or cell phone calls or playing poker or pool or foosball. It is knowing that someone, somewhere loves you, and will always love you. And it is that someone knowing that someone, somewhere loves them truly. That's friendship, and it is a slice of real love, and invaluable.

Fri. 05/09/2008; 8:40 a.m.

Life was never promised to be easy. There has never been a guarantee made about happiness, or fulfillment, not even two hands or two eyes.

It does seem that some people get it easier than others, or that some get slammed with more problems, that disaster falls upon some people and misses others, regardless of their views about God or applied morality or their ability or willingness to pray. Bad happens, as well as good.

If you mention the word "Luck" some oddballs go bananas. "Don't say THAT! There ain't such a thing as LUCK!" Personally, I don't know why they get so upset. Probably because there is so obviously such a thing called "luck" but that it bucks their own world-view of how things are supposed to go, how things are supposed to be.

"It ain't LUCK!" they thunder, "it is GOD!"

Really? So if some loser plunks themselves down at the Blackjack table and gets ten 21s in a row...that's...God...?

"No!" the squeal, "That there, sir, is the devil!"

So what most people think of as luck—either a combination of statistics and odds, that sometimes things fall this way, that sometimes things fall that way, and sometimes things just pile up and fall all one way or another—that thing thought of as luck is actually either the devil or God.

If a bird flies over your head and plants a big white splat down your shoulder, that must be the devil.

If you find a dollar bill blown up against your mailbox, that must be God.

But the fact of the matter is, God created a big, beautiful self-sustained, self-supporting ecosystem where the ground supports the sky and the sky supports the ground and everything in between, and it works (and people can't seem to figure out if you start abusing that ecosystem, you will begin to reap the harvest, and it will be a very bitter reaping), and God does not run around squeezing birds so that they get their aim right, and He didn't set up the devil to aid drunks in winning or losing at blackjack (or to be lord of hell, for that matter), or the occasional "good Christian" who sits down and wins ten straight hands of 21 and then immediately loses it all on one big bet at the roulette table.

You pick up the dice. You toss them. Numbers show on the upper surface of the cubes. Did God decide the fall and tumble. Did the devil breathe on the toss? Is it all mathematical probabilities? Is it often that some people can toss seven straight sevens, while another person is more apt to toss seven straight snake eyes? And if you change the game and the 1's are winners and the 7's are losers, will the two players begin to toss opposite hands from which they usually toss?

You can't see gravity, but it is there. And so is luck, and sometimes luck runs hot, and sometimes cold, and everyone thinks they can get a handle on it, they can bend the system, move things in their favor, and yet even the luckiest get flubbed, and even the unluckiest get their little golden rays of sunshine. It is an aspect of life that can't be blamed on God or the devil. Jesus brought up the point that when a tower fell on a bunch of people, it wasn't because they were bad, or good, it just happened, that's just life, it happens, good and bad.

We have a little choice in how we choose to deal with this thing called life, as it falls upon us like a tower. We can shake our fist at God or we can blame it all on the devil. Or we can choose to deal with it in as positive a way as possible, and get on with it, this thing called life, with all its bad and good.

And we can hope. Work hard, hope, laugh, LOVE, and soldier on.

Thu. 05/08/2008; 9:05 a.m.

If your beliefs cause you to feel superior to others; that you are good because of your beliefs and they are bad because of their lack of your beliefs—then you have a pretty good indicator that you are in a bad place, spiritually speaking.

If you have arrived at your beliefs without a struggle, an immense internal struggle, then the beliefs you carry were probably garnished second-hand (or third or fourth-hand), and you have not fulfilled your mission of thinking for yourself, of making up your own mind, of doing what you were set here to do.

Wed. 05/07/2008; 3:26 p.m.

If people, especially over-the-top religious people, suddenly discovered that everything that they ever believed was absolutely wrong (oh, let's say that God struck them deaf and dumb and then told them that everything they ever believed was WRONG, breaking through the deafness He had imposed, until the message was finished, and then restoring their senses), most people, after they picked themselves off the floor, would continue doing whatever it was they were doing, carrying around the same old beliefs, regardless of what they now know.

Possibly a few, a very few, would wonder at their beliefs, and how they arrived at them, and they would embrace the newness of what God had just revealed to them, and they would follow Him, God, instead of the old traditions.

But that is the general complacency of things, that people who believe themselves Christian follow very unBiblical beliefs, cherishing them, shouting them out, all the while angrily denouncing what God has revealed in His Word.

Tradition is almost always far more important than what the Bible actually teaches.